


Precipice

by YurisMAJuice



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Consensual Infidelity, F/F, Flashbacks, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Predator/Prey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-07-02 15:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15799245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YurisMAJuice/pseuds/YurisMAJuice
Summary: They often locked eyes amidst the chaos of war. Angela looked down, and Widowmaker looked up. As opposing equals they nullified each other’s efforts in the battlefield; Mercy the giver, Widowmaker the taker. They were the only constants at war; two soldiers on opposing sides immune to Death’s summons. They never crossed paths and Angela was always relieved. In this immortal state, she had forgotten the feeling of fear, but she was always reminded of her mortality when faced with the glowing eyes of someone as sinister as the devil.Let the hunt begin...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as an idea for a simple smut but being the impulsive, context-builder that I am, I couldn’t resist the urge to lengthen this story. And here I am 5,000 words later SIGHHH

 

Angela continued to sort through stacks of papers with nothing but the faint lamp lighting her space. The full moon casted a luminescent gleam which somewhat helped light up the dim corners of her room. Her body ached from its static position while her mind grew numb from overuse. The soft evening breeze slipped through parted curtains, caressing her with a gentle but persistent reminder: Rest.

In her 30s, the doctor had reached the pinnacle of medical success—no, the peak of human evolution itself—having created the first and only biotechnology which could produce immortality in a normal human being. Well, ‘ _normal_ ’ being someone like Angela. For reasons she had yet to figure out, she was unique; either in genetic makeup or mere coincidental factors which happened to be present when she decided to use herself as the first test subject to prove her hypothesis. All other replications ended in failure.

Being its sole creator and beneficiary, the doctor’s physique looked no older than the day she discovered it, inhuman regenerative abilities completely halting if not regressing the aging process. But on many countless nights not so unlike this one she resented the fact that she was not able to incorporate a way to diminish the body’s need to sleep.

‘ _You’re lucky to even be alive’_ , she chided herself.

She rubbed away at the tired crusts in her eyes before brushing blonde bangs aside along with any thoughts of rest.

Angela refocused, unaware of the glowing crimson orbs tracking her from a distance.

Perched atop a neighboring high-rise, the shadows came alive, stirring ever so slightly. Widowmaker removed herself from her rifle’s scope, visor simultaneously lifting the shroud from her eyes. In darkness’ embrace she stayed prone, glowing irises trailing the woman across the building like a predator waiting to pounce. Stalking prey always had its share of dull moments, but it was part of the hunt all the same. Dull as it may be, she still grasped at moments like this like the strangled breath of a drowning man. After all, after this there would be nothing—nothing but the sound of torturous ticking as seconds passed until the next high.

A sliver of emotion bled through, lips curving into a smile as she set her sights on the blonde woman once again.

Soon.

—

Angela awoke to the midday sun, its obnoxious rays penetrating lidded eyes. She lifted her head from her desk, a groggy hand peeling away at the paper stuck to a cheek. The window was wide open but the doctor thought nothing more of it when her gaze fell to the hanging clock.

_Shit_.

Scooping all her work in one frenzied motion, she scrambled out of her condo in a hurry. There was an audible slam and the sound of a revving engine then…nothing.

Moments passed until the faint hiss of grating metal broke the silence. It grew louder just as a long trail of deep purple, straight as silk, emerged outside the open window. Widowmaker descended headfirst, legs, slim but strong, intertwined against a grappling hook attached to a ledge. She disengaged a jagged heel from the grapple, allowing the momentum of her fall to land her inside the apartment in one fluid motion. She now stood erect, graceful and poised like a stoic gymnast who has effortlessly mastered her craft.

Golden eyes scanned its surroundings with cold detachment. She explored the white walls, finding its simplicity disappointing. It was never her place to judge a kill, but she had certain expectations for a target this big. Dr. Angela ‘Mercy’ Ziegler, Overwatch’s esteemed battle medic, second—no, equal—to even Talon’s own geneticist. Moira was Talon’s premiere scientist and the chief engineer of Widowmaker’s creation from a nobody to Talon’s greatest weapon. Only a true genius could rival that kind of madness.

Widowmaker had seen Mercy numerous times on the battlefield. And too many times she felt the urge to take the battle angel out of the skies. With the way the doctor masterfully whisked herself around the battlefield, like a majestic Valkyrie tending to the wounded all at once, it would have been a difficult but enticing kill. It was almost a shame to kill her without giving her a fighting chance, but such was an assassin’s way. Silence and surprise; this was how she was trained to hunt.

Since she couldn’t have the joy of battle, she had to draw her enjoyment elsewhere. She looked forward to finding more about this woman who pestered her from the skies. On paper, Mercy was a saint; although, Widowmaker knew better. Often a woman this clean had the most to hide. Yes, Ziegler had to be harboring some fascinating quirks. This kill would be utterly unfulfilling without unearthing a few secrets. No, there had to be more here.

But as she stared at these barren walls, Widowmaker doubted the satisfaction this hit would bring her. The doctor’s abode was bare, lacking personalized flair a true home typically possessed. Aside from a few practical items which held no apparent sentimental value, there was nothing particularly insightful about the doctor’s home.

Widowmaker internally scoffed. No personality. No tastes. One could confuse the doctor as the heartless assassin based on her choice of décor. Perhaps that was due to the doctor’s ruthless professionalism, but it subconsciously irked the assassin just the same at the mirrored manifestation of her own psyche.

This was a woman who could not appreciate the finer things in life. Why, even in this subhuman state Widowmaker had enough sense to redecorate her abode hidden deep in a remote city in France. She had earned her place in Talon and enough trust had been built that they allowed her limited reign and autonomy. She had taken measures to ensure that Talon never discovered her haven. They may have destroyed her humanity, but she would not allow her home to suffer the same fate.

The Guillard chateau had been in her family’s possession for generations. It was her mother’s, passed down to her on the day of her passing. As a child she remembered roaming the endless stretch of backwoods hunting with her father, much to her mother’s disdain. If her mother had been disappointed by her hunt of wild boars, she wondered what her mother would have felt if she ever found out that she hunted far bigger prey these days…

Widowmaker paused, engulfed in the memory of a past life. Suddenly, yet also expectedly, her thoughts were cut off by the feeling of impending doom. An internal shock spread through her head so crippling her whole body grew rigid. Almost instinctively, she began to disassociate. She knew this feeling too well; she ventured too close to memories of a forgotten past, where it should have stayed.

‘ _You are not Amélie_ ’, she reminded herself.

Through Moira’s ingenuity, Talon had effectively conditioned her body to react adversely to anything which invoked strong emotional ties. In an act of self-preservation, her mind had begun to purge her past. The more separation it created between Amélie and Widowmaker, the better. No more pain. She intended to leave the shattered pieces behind. Amélie’s pain will not be forsaken.

Although the feeling had been paralyzing, Widowmaker proceeded as if nothing happened.

She ventured the halls leading up to the bedroom, finding it white and bland—almost clinical—like the rest of Mercy’s apartment. Despite its unkempt presentation, she was pleased to find that the doctor cared enough about her rest, judging by the large bed and its luxurious fluff.

Her nose perked at a familiar scent. If sapphire had a scent, she imagined it would smell just like this. Clean, light, with a hint of masculinity. Well. Extra attention had been given to this room. Her hope rose but deflated just as quickly.

She turned her attention to the bedside table where she often found her targets’ most treasured possessions: religious texts, alcohol, and the like. Instead she found papers, empty trays of food, and a half-finished mug of coffee.

No family, no friends; not even a picture frame of a lover? No, just work.

Widowmaker turned away in disgust.

This woman wasn’t even worth killing. She was already dead.

—

It had been three days since she last set foot in her home. In between the demands of her own research and the possible reinstatement of Overwatch, she had been far too busy to entertain the thought of returning to her condo.

_Home_. She could scarcely call this place home. It was a place to sleep and a place to work. If anything, it was a luxurious spoil compared to the tents she was given during her peacetime missions in less privileged corners of the world. They had been dilapidated and humble but she had eventually grown fond of them.

Angela sat her things down in a pile on her desk, her eyes immediately darting to the bed. The bed looked inviting after being away for so long. Unable to resist the temptation, she grabbed a holopad containing all the files she needed before allowing herself to sink into bed. A sigh of relief escaped her lips.

Just like her other evenings, there would be no rest tonight but at least there would be comfort.

She blindly reached for her glasses on the bedside table, the containers of half-eaten Chinese food long gone since the cleaners disposed of them during their weekly maintenance.

No sooner did she placed her glasses on her nose did her brows furrowed, faded numbers and symbols mockingly dancing across her vision.

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._

It was an understatement to say that she felt amazing disappointment at the discovery that her vision hadn’t worsened—it improved. She didn’t expect it to happen this fast. Tedious efforts have been poured into tracking her own measurements, so she knew she wasn’t due for another one of her body’s self-correcting phases…not until next year. Were her calculations off or was her body becoming more efficient at refining itself? Her body was progressing faster than anticipated, and she found that even on her worst days she was still the epitome of health. As morbid as it may sound, she subconsciously longed for signs of physical decline. It would make her feel more…human.

As grateful as she was for the blessings of added years, it had been hard to appreciate the value of something which came in infinite surplus. She foolishly believed she could eradicate all diseases through biological immunity. She was starting to realize that immortality itself was just as bad as any disease. She no longer took the pleasure of working out, knowing her body would refine itself. She no longer looked for food for the simple enjoyment it provided but merely as sustenance to aid the regenerative process. And people, well, there would always be people. Though she cared for individuals and their well-being, she now cared less about social entanglements; not when there was important work to be done. She had no business being around people who didn’t need her aid. In fact, she had little time for friends or lovers outside the occasional thrill of a random encounter. And she made sure they were random and fleeting. Any attachment inadvertently formed would only serve as a distraction from what truly needed her attention.

She was never meant to have company and she was glad she never sought it. Angela was the sole bearer of this blessing and curse. Its secrets would die with her; perhaps tomorrow, perhaps until she was the last human on earth—or it may very well live through her for all of eternity. For now, all she could hope for was to stay the course and continue her path to leading the world towards a better future. That had been her goal coming in, so should it stay until her last breath.

Angela removed her glasses, finding that she read better without them. She resumed her research, flipping through digitize pages decorated by the Overwatch insignia.

Angela wasn’t exactly ecstatic about the reinstatement of Overwatch. Its philosophies were not always congruent with hers, but she still had dear friends who took a stake at its successful resurgence. As a favor she agreed to review some medical reports to deduce the strength of her remaining people and the weaknesses of her enemies who were no doubt mobilizing to strike Overwatch while it was vulnerable rebuilding its foundations.

The past three days yielded a complete overview of the organization’s commanding staff and the melancholy of seeing old teammates reduced to a 1-page profile. The Overwatch database was in grave need of updating. In the privacy of her own space, she was free to experience loss as familiar faces peered back at her from the cold blue light of her screen. Deceased members like _Commander Amari_ and _Commander Reyes_ were still listed as ACTIVE and she made a mark to correct that.

Angela felt a self-loathing bite. Here she was, unchanged, unaffected, and very much alive long after her peers have perished.

As she shifted her attention from Overwatch personnel to Talon, she found yet another: _Amélie Lacroix_ codename WIDOWMAKER.

Her heart grew heavy with regret. Yet another casualty of war.

Amélie had been a civilian like herself, an Overwatch affiliate only through her husband, Gérard. Like many of the world’s innocents, she was dragged into a war she knew little about. She was sheltered by ignorance; Gérard made sure of that. Overwatch’s intel reported that during her kidnapping Talon subjected her through the most horrific psychological and physiological conditioning. The result gave birth to Talon’s most deadly killer, Widowmaker. Fitting. Angela almost marveled at the sort of science it took to drive a woman to murder her own husband. She loved him dearly, this Angela knew.

What little medical data they had on Widowmaker exposed what was already known through observation: she was a ruthlessly efficient assassin. Her biological data were virtually unreadable, even to someone like Angela. All she could deduce were general at best: Widowmaker was emotionless, heartless, and quite literally cold.

Angela repositioned herself to a sit up against the headboard. Widowmaker was a tragic, biological puzzle.

There was no scientific explanation as to why Widowmaker was alive and functioning. Her biological signatures were inhumanly low. Angela couldn’t help but think how painful it must be to live in a body which subjected itself under these extreme conditions. But she saw its purpose. These traits ultimately made her the perfect soldier; she could quietly take down her targets, both close-ranged and long-ranged. A versatile killer. Overwatch had much to fear if this was the kind of soldier Talon filed in their ranks.

Angela was not one to encourage torture, but even if captured, it seemed inflicting pain would be useless on someone like Widowmaker. Physically, the woman seemed incapable of experiencing pain. The woman had been shot plenty of times; nothing fatal but enough to send a normal human writhing to the ground in excruciating pain.

Mercy had seen her injured many times on the battlefield. She witnessed Widowmaker bandage herself as if a punctured lung was nothing but an inconvenient paper cut. Being its antithesis, Mercy was always hyperaware of the presence of death and agony. Dire injuries yanked her by the collar, demanding her full attention regardless of which side the injured fought with. After all, Death took lives indiscriminately, yet this woman seemed entirely unfazed by his looming presence. He always hovered around Widowmaker, always just a breath away from reaping her soul. He soon found that she had none to give. She merely ignored Death like a seasoned mother to a petulant child until eventually he disappeared into thin smoke to reap elsewhere.

  
Amidst the chaos of war, they often locked eyes. Angela looked down, and Widowmaker looked up. As opposing equals, they nullified each other’s efforts on the battlefield; Mercy the giver, Widowmaker the taker. They were the only constants at war; the only two soldiers on opposing sides immune to Death’s summons. They never crossed paths and Angela was glad for it. In this immortal state, she had forgotten the feeling of fear, but she was always reminded of her mortality when faced with the glowing eyes of someone as sinister as the devil.

Even as she stared at the still photograph of Widowmaker, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up at attention, almost as if the woman could pierce through her soul. Golden eyes held her gaze with unfeeling wrath. This woman was purposed to destroy everything in her path. Angela was no coward, but the sight was enough to cause her knees to quake.

It was such a stark image compared to the other photograph attached next to it. Angela peeled her eyes away from Widowmaker and onto the photograph of her predecessor, Amélie. Amélie stared back at her with mirth and innocence behind those emerald eyes.

Her heart gripped by fear moments ago now ached with sorrow. Amélie and her had bonded as civilians amongst hardened soldiers. She met Amélie in passing during the peak of Overwatch, specifically when Commander Amari had her training at the range, having taken notice of her natural talent with firearms. Gérard had taken his wife to the Overwatch range on a whim, and the commander happened to be there to witness the way Amélie handled her weapon. The commander must’ve sensed potential in the woman. She always did have an eye for talent. Angela had only seen her pick a protégé once, the reformed gunslinger called McCree who was quickly recruited to become part of an elite force in Blackwatch, so Amélie had to be something special. And indeed, she was. Ana Amari didn’t know it at the time but she was grooming Amélie for her own eventual murder. Who could’ve ever predicted that the unassuming, dainty woman would be capable of taking down her own mentor?

Back then Angela also frequented the range; not because she enjoyed smelling like sulfur on top of disease and death, but because she sorely needed the practice. She was in the business of saving lives so a tool with the sole purpose to end them felt alien in her hands. Still, anybody working the battle field was mandated to carry a firearm, and that included even a medic such as herself. She had opted for the smallest pistol, thinking its size correlated with the ease it took to wield it. Angela quickly learned that its small frame produced much greater recoil. Her hands, well-practiced with the surgical precision to save lives could do little to handle the explosive recoil of her firearm. It was one of the harder pistols to master. Nevertheless, she never changed her choice of weapon. Angela had always been stubborn and gritty. She would master this just like everything else in her life.

“ _Squeeze. Don’t pull.”_

_Angela turned to the source of the voice after missing yet another shot, exasperation evident in her face at her own lack of expertise._

_She found herself staring at a woman similar in height. She had abandoned her own firing lane to observe the struggling doctor._

_'Great', she thought. 'Another soldier ready to bark orders.'_  
  
Angela covertly checked the woman’s target to judge the credibility of her words. Dead center. The bullet holes were clustered so closely that it almost seemed like she fired a single high caliber round. Precise and accurate. This woman was a sharpshooter. Only commander Amari and McCree could replicate a target like this.

_Angela lowered her weapon and removed her hearing protection to better hear the woman who now mirrored her movements._

_“I’m sorry for the unsolicited advice,” she said, a cautious but friendly smile tugging at her lips. She must’ve realized she was addressing a high-ranking official._

_“It’s alright. I’m afraid this doesn’t come naturally to me,” Angela sighed._

_“Dr. Angela Zeigler.” She extended a calloused hand, red from inexpert management of her weapon._

_“Amélie Lacroix,” The woman returned the gesture and Angela was surprised at the softness of her hand. One would have never guessed such delicate hands could wield a violent instrument so expertly._

_“Oh, you are Gérard’s wife.”_

_Amélie sighed and smiled at this, like she was all too used to being recognized only through her husband._

_“You are a better shot than he is,” Angela added, hoping to invalidate the impact of her previous statement._

_“I am new to this myself,” Amélie humbly informed, quick to downplay her own sharp shooting abilities._

_“I find that hard to believe.”_

_“I grew up hunting with small rifles but nothing like the high-powered bolt-action the commander has me shooting these days.” Hunting in France? That’s generally reserved for aristocrats. Her French accent had been a dead giveaway, but now she could confirm that this woman also came from wealth. She exuded an air of regality, after all._

_“Well the commander loves her guns and enjoys the company of those who share her enthusiasm.”_

_“You don’t approve.” Amélie tried to hold back a grimace. It was not a question but rather a scandalized statement._

_She must’ve failed to veil the bite in her words._

_“It’s not my place to judge. I spearhead an entire department in a paramilitary organization, after all”, Angela bantered to hide her serious and unyielding stance on the matter. She was outspoken when it came to violence and she made many enemies in Overwatch because of it._

_Amélie’s expression was hesitant. Her mouth opened as if to say something but closed again when she thought it wiser not to share her thoughts._

_“I understand.” Amélie dropped the topic._

_Angela liked her already. She didn’t possess the self-absorbed bravado most Overwatch agents had. It was something she quickly grew tired of from her very first day in the organization. Soldiers were quick to assert themselves; how they were fighting on the right side as if ignorance and pride would somehow cleanse them of the guilt that they had willingly, if not too eagerly, destroyed numerous lives on this quest for “peace”._

_“Would you like some pointers from a rookie then?” Amélie offered, her genuine smile reaching her eyes. The green served a nice balance to her ivory complexion and cerulean hair. Her look was reminiscent of the ancient statues she admired in Greece; elegant and timeless. Despite Amélie’s superior pedigree, Angela found that she didn’t carry herself with a sense of arrogant prerogative but was instead surprisingly likable, if not faultlessly charming._

_“Please.” Angela usually didn’t like being told what to do but Amélie had been gentle with her offer and Angela needed any help she could get._  
  
_Amélie nodded so they placed their ear pieces over their heads in preparation._

_What Angela was not prepared for was how close Amélie had to lean in to be heard. She was observing Angela’s sights and the placement of her fingers, unaware of how badly the other woman resisted the urge to create space._

_“The trigger. There is a point of no return. Feel the slack and squeeze it. Don’t pull or you will throw off your shot.”_

_Angela tried to pay attention, but Amélie’s close proximity was distracting._

_Why the French were this comfortable with shoulder-to-shoulder contact she would never understand. As worldly as she was her Germanic upbringing gave her unease at being this close to a stranger._

_Angela did as she was told but missed her mark nonetheless._

_“Get closer to the breaking point. You are still pulling,” Amélie continued, ignoring if not completely unaware of Angela’s discomfort._

_Angela fired again._

_Miss._

_“Use restraint, not strength.”_

_Miss._

_“Come, now. Ease your finger.”_

_Miss._

_By this point, Angela had forgotten about her discomfort and was focused entirely on her failures._

_Damn it!_

_“You’re doing better. Here, watch me.”_

_Amélie stepped forward and handled Angela’s pistol once she was safe to observe from her side. She watched as Amélie fired in quick successions, and despite this being her first time firing Angela’s weapon, all but one of her shots hit the same place, right on the mark._

_Angela didn’t appreciate Amélie’s shooting as much as she appreciated the grace in which she completed her task. It was almost beautiful despite the violent nature of her expertise. It was rare for Angela to experience this kind of awe; especially considering that this was a skill which pertained to something she deeply disapproved of. Perhaps it was Amélie’s soft femininity which dampened the hard violence that came with this sort of activity…_

_She was taken out of her thoughts when Amélie beckoned her over. Amélie held the pistol on its side, the handle now horizontal instead of vertical. She gave instructions to Angela and allowed her to insert a finger through the trigger guard._

_“Why am I shooting sideways? I can’t see the sights.” Angela protested._

_“The sights are distracting you. You are too focused on the result when you should be paying attention to the process. Shoot.”_

_Angela fired, but unable to see where it landed, she quickly quipped, “Did I even hit it?”_

_“It does not matter. Did you feel it?”_

_“Feel what?”_

_Amélie closed the distance and again Angela felt uncomfortable. Amélie placed her own finger on the trigger, right above Angela’s and squeezed down. She stopped midway, right at the brink of discharge so Angela could feel what she felt._

_“Close your eyes,” Angela heard her close to her right ear. Amélie was flushed against her back, placing a gentle hand on Angela’s shoulder to help stabilize the woman’s stance._

_“Focus,” Amélie instructed and Angela’s discomfort eventually dissipated._

_Angela took a deep breath and cleared her mind. It was similar to her own meditative process, right before she had to make an important surgical cut—one that could save or kill a patient._

_She focused all her consciousness to a lone finger as Amélie squeezed down again, guiding her to that point of no return. There was resistance on her finger then a range of slack just as Amélie described. Then she felt it, the precipice where the slightest pressure would cause the gun to go off—an ounce of pressure between life or death. When the gun went off the recoil didn’t surprise Angela. Amélie’s form against her was a steadfast force. For that brief moment she was an extension of Amélie just as much as Amélie was her own._

_“Tell me you felt that,” Amélie’s voice sounded close and oddly enticing. She was pleased with Angela’s performance and for a moment Angela wanted to keep going if it meant receiving more praise from this woman._

_This close even the pungent smell of iron and sulfur couldn’t overpower Amélie’s floral scent. She had a consuming charm and Angela’s internal sirens blared._

_Oh, yes. She definitely felt that._

_The doctor coughed and backed away at the realization, moving to reestablish the distance between them._

_Angela looked at her shot, surprised that she finally hit the heart of her target._

_“Trust your body. It knows exactly what to do.”_

_As Amélie smiled at her, Angela was all too aware of the possible implications of Amélie’s advice. If she allowed herself to be led purely by instincts, it would pull her in a direction she wasn’t sure she was willing to go. Specifically, it tugged her towards a certain woman with kind emerald eyes and a fatal smile._

Angela finished her notes on Widowmaker before shutting off her holopad. She found no use dwelling on the past.

There was no Amélie; just a cold-blooded assassin who needed to pay for her crimes.


	2. Chapter 2

Mercy embodied light even as the harsh strokes of lightning split the skies. Widowmaker dared say she even looked angelic amongst the destructive chaos of that night.

Each clap of thunder revealed Widowmaker’s slender form with every harsh bolt of light that sent the friendly shadows scurrying into the night. Angela had been too engrossed with her little flasks and syringes to notice any of it, blissfully unaware of the eerie glow of the hawkish gaze stalking her from across the building.

The wind had been persistent, threatening to sway Widowmaker’s rifle but she endured them with ease. Despite being camped out in the middle of a storm, her sights were steady, ready to fire at the woman displayed in her scope. The splatter of raindrops against Widowmaker’s own icy skin wasn’t nearly cold enough to rattle her grip, but it still shook with silent fury.

Seeing this doctor tinkering in her home’s own makeshift laboratory brought her back to her days in Talon’s lab. A place of suffering and ultimately, death. Amélie’s hopes died on the cold pavement of Moira’s lab. She knew because that had been her moment of birth, her first awakening as Widowmaker.

She still had visions of Amélie’s skin, once a smooth surface then became littered with tryphophobic holes, punctured by an endless barrage of needles pumping her full of chemicals which boiled her insides long after her throat had gone raw from screaming. She could almost feel the strain in Amélie’s wrists at being forced down; out of desperation she had resorted to clawing at her own skin in a futile attempt to rid herself of the toxins which poisoned her body and corrupted her mind. Amélie knew what she would become. Had tried so hard to stop the birth of Widowmaker. Widowmaker covered Amélie’s scars with ink as a testament that through suffering there can be new beginnings. She might not approve of what she has become but together they not only survived, they conquered.

Widowmaker felt a low growl rise from the back of her throat. These scientists likened themselves to gods. As if they had the right to take life and experiment with nature however they chose. They were no more than intelligent primates. Nature always corrected itself, like these omnics who believed themselves to possess souls. They would eventually rust in the rain like the scraps of metal they truly were. And Angela would soon return to dust.

She was just like them. Like the geneticist who hurt Amélie.

To eliminate her kind would be satisfying enough but it would be a waste to kill the doctor this way. An accomplished prey like Angela could give her an exhilarating chase.

Widowmaker fought off the urge to fire a warning shot, to give the woman ample time to don her battle suit and take the hunt out into the open skies. With the current conditions, it would have made a fine hunt indeed. Her senses would be dulled by the storm, its currents washing away any trail of the panicked prey while the downpour dampened the sound of her escape. With her level of evasion, she knew the doctor would choose flight over fight, but one never really knew until the moment of truth. Even a timid soul bore its fangs when their fragile mortality was threatened.

She allowed the crosshairs to settle, her sights perfectly aligned to Mercy’s temples as she continued to pour vials into each other. These foolish scientists and their foolish attempts to defy nature.

Widowmaker entered a knowing trance. She held her breath; not that she needed to since her heart didn’t beat nearly enough to affect the steadiness of her sight. She knew this rifle better than she understood her own mind but this body had a ritual and Widowmaker religiously followed each of them. Her mind may be fragmented, but Amélie’s instincts were omnipresent, clear as day.

She squeezed the slack of her trigger until only a breath of pressure separated Angela from life and death.

“ _Squeeze. Don’t pull.”_

Widowmaker always savored the silence before the ear-splitting blast of her sniper rifle, knew that it would take less than a second for Angela to drop dead, and another two to charge a second shot.

She counted to three, adding pressure with every second.

 

_One_ ,

 

_Two_ ,

 

_Thr_ —

Just as she was about to fire, Angela disappeared, moving sporadically out of sight. Widowmaker was fast enough to track and adjust to her sudden movement, but held her fire to observe. She watched as the doctor mouthed a string of curses while she wiped the spilled substance from her lab coat. Smoke emanated from the doctor’s torso as the chemicals burned through clothe and skin. Angela stripped out of her shirt in haste. Now clad in just a black underwire bra from the waist up, she inspected the damage.

The chemical had burned through muscle.

Widowmaker wondered why the doctor’s expression was more of annoyance than pain, as if burning a hole through one’s abdomen was a daily occurrence instead of a life threatening event. She had to blink twice to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her—Angela’s wound was slowly searing shut.

She knew the doctor had regenerative abilities, but nothing of this scale.

  
Could she survive a bullet to the head?

With an annoyed scoff, Widowmaker disengaged her sniper rifle, allowing it to collapse into its smaller, more mobile form.

  
She would have to get her hands dirty, it seemed.

Admittedly, she was somewhat thrilled to take the hunt beyond the comfort of her perch.  

—

Widowmaker never liked the sight of blood, an enigma for an assassin. Getting her hands dirty felt so...uncivilized. She preferred a clean shot taken from afar. The best part about killing from a distance was that she never had to see blood, to be reminded of her first kill. It always triggered the worst shock, thinking about Gérard. She had been so inexperienced then, so messy. She neither knew the right way to cut nor the right place to do it. Widowmaker had missed his jugulars, and he struggled to breath for what seemed like an eternity before he finally succumbed to the darkness. All she could do was watch helplessly as he violently convulsed.

Widowmaker tried to give him a swift death, even made love to him before she struck because that’s what Amélie had wanted. But she had failed.

She wept as she held him, whispering a mantra of apologies that went unheard. She rubbed her hands raw that night…it had been so disgusting. His blood was everywhere. A reminder of her failure. She could still see it every time she closed her eyes.

It’s been almost 10 years since that night, 10 years to perfect her craft.

This one was turning out cleaner than her first hit.

She hovered above the doctor, fingers gripped tightly around her throat. 

Angela’s body could close wounds, but could it open airways? Widowmaker waited patiently for the answer, while she reveled in the way Angela thrashed in a desperate attempt to fend her off.

What a wonderful opportunity it was to watch the last breath leave her body.

_She is so close_ , Widowmaker’s excitement peaked.

She could feel the hysteria creeping in the closer Angela got to death’s doors.

  
Beautiful. It was all beautiful. Now she could join the other angels in the afterlife. She should be thanking her! Widowmaker could feel her blood coursing through her veins, hot and alive.

She originally planned a quick kill, to sneak behind the doctor and snap her neck in one motion. It would’ve been easier if the doctor just embraced her fate instead of putting up a fight. But Angela had seen her through the reflection on her vials and resisted. There was a tussle on the ground with Widowmaker easily overpowering the shorter woman. And here she was, still dying.

So futile. 

Widowmaker feasted her eyes on the woman below her. Angela was still bare from the waist up, and Widowmaker could see that her abdomen had fully healed. Her blonde hair was a messy bun, barely held together after Widowmaker took her to the ground.

And her eyes.

Such fierce fire in those deep blue eyes.

A spark of recognition caused Widowmaker to pause at the sight of the breathy doctor beneath her. Images of this woman passed through her mind’s eye like a forgotten film left playing in the background. Of roaming hands in the dead of night. The woman’s touch, the woman’s wrath. Whispers of sweet nothings and terrible acts which jolted her at the core. The voices of lust melted so smoothly to the present, the past sounds of pleasures now indistinguishable from the cries of agony of this battle.

The searing shock came full throttle. Widowmaker’s death grip on Angela left her throat to clamp down on her own head.

_Stop._

Her teeth gritted at the overwhelming shock splitting her skull.

_Stop!_

“Stubborn woman”, she growled, eyes screwed shut as if that would stop the memories from flooding her mind. Her lips barely moved, its sound more like a desperate cry more than a word to be communicated. But the doctor beneath her heard it, saw a piece of someone long forgotten. Angela recognized it and saw Amélie for the first time in 10 years.

—

  
“ _Stubborn woman.”_

_She heard her own voice echo in a vast but empty mat room in one of Overwatch’s many obscure training rooms. It was amusement as much as disbelief._

_“Does the Commander train you in self-defense too?!” Angela struggled to breath out as Amélie had her helplessly pinned on the ground, limbs expertly positioned to keep her from moving to a more dominant position._

_Amélie smirked at her fruitless attempts to flip their position. As a child, her father not only trained her how to hunt, he also obliged her wishes to train with various styles of fighting. He saw her dexterity and potential to be great, unlike her mother who urged her to take a more “refined” hobby like ballet._

_It seemed her amusement had been taken for arrogance judging by Angela’s sudden vigor at escaping Amélie’s pin. At this dainty woman who was now overpowering her._

_Good._

_She’s angry._

_Amélie could tell Angela was all too used to having control and she enjoyed showing her otherwise. She was too easy to read, especially when Amélie riled her up. She had a fiery personality, a stubborn streak, and unwavering convictions—traits too easily manipulated in the heat of battle—very much opposite to Amélie’s own cool façade._

_Their first meeting had been...magnetic. Like a moth to a flame, Amélie was drawn to that fiery persona so when she saw the doctor training by herself in the mat room with a dummy, she couldn’t help but offer herself as a partner to practice with. The doctor didn’t think much of it. She had a rational mind, a simplicity which Amélie appreciated. Angela knew she would gain more from training with an actual human—no matter how inexperienced, she assumed—than she ever could with a weighted dummy._

_Angela, like the others, had underestimated her unassuming form. They couldn’t get past the outer shell. All people saw was a woman with a pleasant smile, a nice bosom, and an agreeable personality._

_Only the commander had truly seen her. Saw how she feigned weakness and ignorance, not to deceive but to disappear. She was dangerous, and she could be deadly with proper training._

_Angela’s physique, even at its most basic state, was just as strong, if not stronger than Amélie’s; the only difference was that Amélie knew her body better than Angela knew hers. As a world-renowned physician, Angela was be well-versed in the intricate nature of the body’s inner workings but Amélie, with all her grace and balance, knew just as much about its outer workings._ _She knew that if Angela leaned a little to one side, she could have used the momentum to easily overpower her._

_Like her personality, Angela’s fighting style was too straightforward, depending solely on ostensible factors like strength to overpower her enemies. Battle was messy and the doctor was too prim to thrive in its chaos. Angela’s practical mind was her strength as well as her weakness._

_Leverage, speed, and flexibility. Amélie learned to derive strength from contortion and adaptation. Ballet had been useful, after all._

_  
Amélie could have taken her down then, but she wanted to ride it out to the moment the infuriated doctor finally realized her limitations._

_Despite Amélie's amusement, she truly admired the headstrong doctor. She possessed the determination to bend the fates to her will. Even now as she struggled on the floor, pinned by Amélie in a headlock, she still struggled to escape the impossible position. Slender as she was, Amélie was still far too seasoned to be bested. Angela’s efforts did nothing more than expend energy._

_“Do you yield?”_

_Angela remained adamant; she would break an arm before she surrendered, it seemed._

_So be it._

_Amélie pulled even tighter, feeling the increasing strain on Angela’s shoulders. She heard Angela groan at the pain, at being forced to submit, but she pressed on. Amélie intended to give her an authentic fight. The burden of responsibility for any injuries the doctor suffers in a real battle will not fall on her shoulders._

_Grit wasn’t always enough. Skills, experience, favorable conditions; these were factors in battle that were insurmountable purely by the strength of one’s will. There were rules and a natural pecking order in life. The strongest and smartest animal always won._

_“Yield,” Amélie commanded, the clear alpha of this fight. Experience gave Amélie the confidence to know that Angela was already defeated._

_Angela stayed silent, eyes determined to find an escape as it darted about, searching for a weakness in Amélie’s grip._

_She was just buying time by this point. Amélie added more pressure but_ _grimaced as she felt Angela tethering too close to her breaking point._

_“Angela...” She almost relented, fearing the woman would break something but she remained undeterred. Amélie could only match her ferocity; she owed her that much for her efforts._

_Angela began to breathe harder until she mustered all her strength in one final scream. A battle cry fit for the bravest soldier, it thundered in the vast room and was soon followed by a loud pop as Amélie felt Angela’s limb forcibly torn out its socket. Her arm now laid limp, affording her the space to wriggle out of Amélie’s hold. Angela slid out of her grasp none too gracefully but Amélie had been too stunned to react—Angela dislocated her shoulders to escape._   _Before she could guard herself, Angela was already on top of her._

_Angela’s arm hung uselessly limp, but a forearm pressed against Amélie’s throat like a blade._

_Had this been a real battle, she would surely be dead._

_The pressure was hard enough that Amélie struggled to gulp down the lump in her throat at the sudden realization that she wasn't_ _the only one wearing a guise._

_Perhaps she was the one who hadn't properly seen Angela._

_But she saw her now._  

_At this distance, she could feel the crushing weight of the feral energy emanating from the usually prim and proper doctor. Sweat trickled down from one forehead to another, air heavy with their hot, panted breaths. Angela’s breathing was particularly labored, her form littered with holes Amélie could have exploited to reestablish dominance, but she was too dumbfounded to move._

_There was a carnal look in Angela’s eyes, something that longed to ravage her. Amélie could only lay there, rendered immobile under the calm fire raging in those blue eyes._

_For the first time in a long time she felt vulnerable, almost fearful, at the fire which threatened to consume her._

_Angela sacrificed an arm to win. The spark in her eyes conveyed her will to do so again and again and again._

_It was…raw. It was a piece of Angela she never saw, kept locked and shackled, and rightfully so. But as Amélie surrendered to it, she felt perplexed by her sudden need to be scorched by it._

Widowmaker blinked to find that Angela now hovered above her, pinning her to the ground beneath her weight. She looked up at her in confusion, at the sense of reverence in her heart instead of the knowing shame that should have come from being bested.

Who was this woman?


	3. Chapter 3

It was all the distraction Angela needed. Her hands desperately sought for something—anything—which could help her defend herself. Finding one, she plunged a displaced syringe into Widowmaker’s neck, watching the assassin recoil at the familiar sting.

The trance that held Widowmaker vanished beneath the rage at having yet another needle puncture her skin.

These _fucking_ doctors.

With a violent tug, Widowmaker pulled the protruding syringe from her neck, tossing it aside with such force it almost broke from contact. She lunged for the doctor, vision stained red like a taunted bull prodded one too many times.

Angela landed on the floor with a hard thud as the once pristine apartment transformed into a battlefield. Their battle raged like the storm wreaking havoc outside while the walls reverberated with the violent clap of thunder just as they were plunged into absolute darkness. Only the occasional flash of lightning revealed the struggles of the shadows engaged in war.

There was chaos, blood, and sweat as claws dug into limbs and throats and whatever else they could get their hands on. Their hair had come undone, yellow and purple mixing on white floors like unrefined brush strokes upon canvas. Rich crimson dripped from invisible cuts, stark against Angela’s pale skin, made even paler by the harsh blue gleam of the night.

Widowmaker could barely register the smoke which emanated from Angela’s body, searing and protecting the woman in its fiery embrace. But the killer could feel the scorch as her cold skin burned at the lightest graze, sending her in a fit of delirious rage. No matter her efforts—growing sloppier by the second—it did nothing to the woman below her.

Angela’s very essence nullified her very purpose to exist.

Widowmaker bared her teeth as she wrought blind violence upon the woman beneath her, but even with their disparity in strength, Angela remained unaffected.

The killer’s onslaught eventually slowed, having just enough sense to keep the woman bound to the floor. Angela fought against her submission, but the hold on her wrists were pure steel.

She was trapped; and under the mercy of an accomplished assassin like Widowmaker, even Angela doubted her survival.

Angela could hear her heart pounding in her ears as the adrenaline raced through her entire system. No doubt Widowmaker could feel her entire body trembling as she hovered over her, like helpless prey waiting to be put out of its misery.

For years she lived under the illusion of presumed immortality, but the truth hit her like a proper dousing of ice water; Widowmaker held her life.

She had never been this close to death…yet...Widowmaker hesistated. Why?

Did remnants of Amélie survive Talon’s brainwashing in the dark crevices of Widowmaker’s psyche?

Defiantly, she looked up at Widowmaker—no trace of Amélie to be found—the menacing glow of those genetically-altered irises enough to cease the beating of any weak heart. But beneath the killer’s frenzy she could see that the assassin’s pupils had blown, and she struggled to keep them focused on anything but Angela.

In the corner of her eye, the syringe shone, a revelation hidden within in its sheen.

Widowmaker had been fighting through a haze.

Realization sunk and in the span of 3 seconds, she had already formulated a plan to take down her assassin.

Angela steeled herself.

She ceased her struggles, unbeknownst to the assassin who was now entirely focused on summoning every shred of mental prowess to keep herself rooted to the present.

Widowmaker grew helpless against the first waves of dissociation. She knew her memories would kill her one day, but not like this. Soon, her prey would retaliate, and she would be too paralyzed to do anything.

Her grip on Angela’s wrists tightened, feeling the unfamiliar sense of losing control.

Not again. She died once already. Not at the hands of another _fucking_ scientist.

Despite her resolve, fragmented images continued to stream into her mind as she fought to stay above the vortex, threatening to pull her under and drown her. Wispy as they may, the emotions that came from a forgotten past distressed her numb heart more than the crushing ache in her head.

Paralyzed and overwhelmed, she could only think to scream as the doctor watched in horror.

Agony, frustration, longing. Widowmaker fought the urge to retreat into sweet nothingness, the only haven she’d known for the past 10 years. But staying true to her conditioning, she followed the instinct to destroy that which gave her these _feelings_.

She’ll _kill_  Zeigler. Widowmaker felt her throat tighten at the self-promise. She’ll _kill_ her. 

Still powerless to move, she could only tighten her hold on Angela, hard enough to draw blood. The burning sensation on her fingertips only reminded her of its futility.

_The doctor cannot be hurt. She cannot die._

The assassin’s fragile mind broke, unable to process the semantic error.

Was it the serum the doctor injected? Or was it the doctor herself who was triggering all of Amélie’s memories? Who was she to Amélie to trigger this kind of reaction?

As she looked down at Angela blanketed by the soft sheet of darkness, blonde hair strewn messily and a bra strap hanging loosely off one shoulder—a sight that felt all too familiar— Widowmaker knew.

The background dissipated into insignificance.

Only Angela existed in that moment.

—

Angela retracted, bolting up from the ground and leaving Amélie to catch her breath.

“Cheap move.”

Amélie sat up on the cushioned mat, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Very good, you’re getting better. I thought you had me there for a second.”

“I did until you did _that_.” Angela almost growled, failing to reign in the annoyance in her tone. She quickly turned away hoping it would be enough to hide the flush in her cheeks.

Amélie chuckled softly at the petulant retort.

“All’s fair in love and war.”

“That was inappropriate.”

“War is dirty. I saw an opening, and I exploited it. You should learn to do the same.”

For months they sparred, and only once did Angela ever beat Amélie. She damn well broke her body in the process too. Fortunately, her research on regenerative healing coincided with her injuries, or else it might’ve left some irreparable damage to her shoulders. The first bouts of testing yielded incredible results. Angela could feel her muscles stacking, growing leaner and far denser which gave her a surge of strength even from minimal exertion.

Today, victory was within grasp had it not been for the dirty tactic Amélie just pulled. Through refined technique—and admittedly, some stroke of luck—she finally managed to outmaneuver Amélie. Her newfound strength momentarily overpowered Amélie, forcing her in a vulnerable position.

Calm and collected, Amélie merely flowed with Angela’s lead. Where Angela paved her own way, Amélie always chose the path of least resistance. To Angela’s surprise, instead of fighting to break free, she allowed Angela to pull her closer. Face mere centimeters apart, Amélie gave a devilish grin.

_Oh no._

Angela panicked, aware of the implicit intention behind that coquettish grin. 

They had gotten to know each other over the months, more intimately than most colleagues could as battle tended to draw the rawest parts of people to the forefront. In some unspoken form they have acknowledged the mutual admiration--tethering too close to attraction--but both had been comfortable enough to explore those feelings under extenuating circumstances. There was no harm in a risqué comment here, a playful touch there.

That’s what kept it light…until now.

Amélie started to lean in as Angela could only watch with wide eyes as their lips almost brushed. At the last moment, Amélie diverted to an ear, lips so close her hot breath tickled Angela’s neck when she whispered bold words into her ear.

Angela frowned. Her French wasn’t the best, but she understood enough to momentarily stun her.

It had been enough. It lasted all of 2 seconds before Amélie had her under again.

Angela gave a huff of disapproval; not from being bested but from the unconventionality of Amélie’s methods. She wasn’t so naïve to expect a fight always played out neatly, but it needn’t lack honor, rules, and structure.

Angela almost despised the way Amélie toyed with her, just as much as she was enamored by it. Amélie was only an affiliate and not an official member of Overwatch so in no way was she bound by their hierarchy, but being younger than Angela, she assumed Amélie would act more like her junior. Surely, she should be the one learning from Angela and not the other way around.

Much like her, Amélie exuded confidence beyond her years; not the kind derived from a shallow place to impress an audience. No, her courage came from something intrinsic, the way she moved and occupied space even when no one was watching.

Never mind that she presented herself as an average woman when she was anything but. Angela found that Amélie had a habit of dulling her own aura—a hard feat when she was usually the most captivating woman in the room. Her impressive curves were always admired but never for reasons that made her a competent adversary. Many failed to realize that she was an accomplished fighter--Angela included, and she paid dearly for it.

Rolling around with Amélie covered in sweat had been uncomfortable initially, but she learned to overlook it for the wisdom Amélie brought to the table. She wondered how Amélie could frolic about Overwatch’s facilities without restricted access but ultimately, she was thankful when Amélie opened that door and offered her help. Angela learned more in the few months she sparred with Amélie than she ever did in her years of training in Overwatch. 

Commander Amari had also taken a liking to the woman, training her like she would Fareeha, her own daughter. Perhaps that’s how she was able to walk about as freely as Angela even though she usually stayed within the training grounds.

She pushed aside her annoyance and knelt down to Amélie’s level who was still rubbing the back of her skull.

“Let me see.”

“I’m fine,” Amélie replied, shaking away at the dull ache in her skull. “I just landed harder than usual. It happens.”

Nudging a folded knee, Angela guided the woman to turn around. Amélie sighed at the doctor’s demanding nature as Angela ran expert fingers through her scalp, feeling for any injuries. 

Amélie’s eyes scrunched when the doctor touched a sore spot, secretly grateful for having an accomplished physician for a sparring partner. Not only that, Angela proved to be a durable fighter. Amélie had been surprised to see Angela training just a few days after she injured her shoulders.

Despite Angela’s lack of experience, the woman was also a quick study; as one should expect from the youngest surgeon in Overwatch.

Just a couple years her senior yet she’s already the head of her own department in a multibillion-dollar paramilitary organization. Through grit and pure merit, she rose through the ranks without support and stability. Amélie was proud of her own achievements; being a great shot and decent dancer did not come easy, but all of those had been attained and carefully honed through privileges of birthright. As a child, she had the resources and access to anything which took her fancy; whereas the doctor came from humble, if not tragic beginnings. Amélie heard the whispers, how Angela was orphaned by the war from a young age. Perhaps that’s where her distaste for violence stemmed from. Amélie always complained of her overbearing mother, but someone like Angela would be grateful to even have someone to call mother.

It was humbling. She’d have to remember to visit her mother at the chateau one of these days.

“And to think, I was actually holding back,” Angela boasted in jest.

Amélie kept her eyes closed but smirked at the trash talk. She didn’t doubt it. Angela was too rigid and formulaic even when fluidity would’ve served better in certain situations. That’s why she was always breaking something; after all, the bamboo that bends is stronger than the oak that resists, or something like that.

Nonetheless Amélie was glad for Angela’s self-control; not for her sake but for Angela’s own safety. The last time she went all out, she willingly broke her shoulders. Guilt-ridden at having pushed her too far, Amélie made sure to check up on the woman everyday even when she knew the doctor was far more qualified to treat her own injuries. It had been bothersome. Now that Amélie knew Angela’s limits—or lack there of—she could better facilitate conducive sparring sessions by pushing her just enough.

“Is that why you always end up on your back? Maybe you need to give me a little bit more.” Amélie parried.

“I don’t think you’d be able to handle it.”

Amélie scoffed. “You’re all bark and no bite.”

Seemingly finished with her inspection, Angela turned Amélie back to face her. Angela’s expression became serious, if not somewhat reluctant. 

“What is it?” Amélie said, concerned.

Unexpectedly, a palm cradled the side of her face with such care that Amélie almost backed away from the touch. Angela traced her fingertips across her jaw until it nestled on her chin, guiding Amélie to face her. The forthright and intimate gesture might’ve broken a lesser woman’s veneer, but not one to easily be deterred, Amélie matched her gaze.

Amélie internally frowned, careful not to show any visible signs of a spiked heart rate. This…was not entirely unwelcome but it was far too forward—and very public—than the “ _accidental_ ” brushes she had grown accustomed to.

Perhaps what she murmured in the woman’s ear earlier had been too much of a catalyst.

Amélie almost regretted saying them for every second Angela’s fingers lingered, the more she enjoyed the burn of her touch. Both had hard lines they never crossed, but as they kept closing in, they merely redrew them further up until it was in danger of being breached again. 

The trance was broken when voices began to approach. Amélie started to peel away but Angela was curt, steady fingers keeping her focused and in place.

“Look at me.” Angela’s tone was low and firm, the command piercing Amélie to her core and she could only think to obey.

Amélie had almost forgotten how easily she could put steel in her words, the way the soft-spoken woman hardened in the blink of an eye. It was a duality which mirrored hers; they were  just two sides of the same coin.

Angela was everything Amélie wasn’t. Angela was an anchor, and Amélie an ocean from which she could explore, sinking into her unending depths, daring to venture deeper than even light has reached. Angela would wade through her darkness, because her tenacity wouldn’t allow her to walk away from unraveling the mystery in front of her. Like those before her, Amélie knew she would sink; but unlike them, Angela would find what she was looking for, even if she disintegrated under the pressure and only her bare bones reached Amélie.

It was a frightening but captivating thought.

As Angela studied Amélie’s eyes like she was counting the number of stars they possessed, Amélie felt overwhelming desire to know what it would be like to be engulfed by her.

There was a bead of perspiration on Angela’s temples and as she followed the trail down to her dips of her chest Amélie wondered just how much of that dampness had been her own. Amélie couldn’t help but look up at her lips, at the excruciatingly inviting way they started to part as they drew closer and—

“Your vitals are fine. Stop by my place if you feel dizzy at any time throughout the day.”

The clinical tone caused Amélie’s eyes to snap open, not realizing she had closed them.

The blonde woman had an amused grin and a knowing, teasing twinkle in her eye.

 _Cheeky_ , she thought bitterly.

Just as Amélie eventually uncovered Angela’s domineering personality, Angela was all too aware of the tundra behind that warm smile and Amélie unleashed the worst winter in that glare.

Angela merely deflected. “I saw an opening, so I exploited it.”

After all, bold words called for bold consequences.

—

_“You’d make a great lover if you make love as passionately as you fight.”_

Angela broke away, aghast, unsure, but…wanting. The tide had finally turned in her favor, but not in the way she anticipated. The chemicals she administered should’ve scrambled the assassin’s senses, but counteracting against the host’s own biology and psychology, the results had been nothing short of unpredictable.

One moment there was a violent standoff, the next a pensive stare-down.

She couldn’t be bothered with what caused the woman to look at her like _that_ , but Angela was careful not to break eye contact, fearing the killer’s attention would retract back to her hands as they carefully felt the floor for the largest piece of glass.

Her search came to a halt when she felt an unexpected albeit familiar sensation on her lips.

Taken aback, Angela jerked away from the lips which now held hers captive. Widowmaker’s fervor was contagious, desperation apparent as she held Angela like the lifeline she was, her sole anchor to the present.

There was no pain following the ministrations of her instincts, Widowmaker’s movements flowing as naturally as a river, muscle memory driving her motions instead of the contradicting commands of a fractured mind.

Angela gasped against her mouth when she felt icy fingers glide along her curves, the tiny hairs on her arms prickling at the dulcet intrusion. Her senses heightened, blue eyes dilated to the point of no return as Widowmaker willfully dove into its abyss.

Widowmaker’s grip on the woman remained firm; this time not to hurt, but to possess, to reclaim what was once hers. Amélie knew these valleys and dips, had mapped them numerous times in her past life. She knew where to soften, where to roughen, and Angela eventually succumbed to the masterful way she roused desires long forgotten, reluctantly welcoming them like the return of a long-lost lover.

In the shroud of darkness, the lines blurred. Every caress smeared the lines separating lust and danger, Amélie and Widowmaker, until eventually they became one, clashing ideologies coexisting within the same plane.

Their battle transformed into a different kind of struggle, a sweet impasse, both equally determined to deny the other’s claim for dominance as if it was a matter of life and death. And perhaps that was still at stake.

Angela propped herself up by the elbows, earnest to meet starved lips that had gone too long without her taste. Their tongues danced to a familiar tune, slowly at first, but it grew fervent as they easily slipped into a knowing groove.

Widowmaker’s weakened state felt achingly similar to Amélie’s acquiescence and as she surrendered to Angela’s growing dominance, it brought them back to the days when Amélie’s passivity complemented the doctor’s instinct to lead.

The feline grace, swift and fatal, was long gone, and so did the strength it was derived from.

She felt herself get pulled by the collar, Angela now leading, guiding her to the bedroom as their tongues continued their exploration, breaking only when Angela shoved her to the bed.

Amélie landed on her back with a small gasp, Angela’s sudden roughness leaving her hot and breathless. She watched blue eyes come alive, glazed with pure carnal desire, oppressive and intoxicating. The way Angela spoke with just a glance, demanding utter compliance, for her to stay and wait and not move a _fucking_ muscle until she was told to.

She licked her lips.

Defeat never looked this _tempting_.

It was sweet torture watching Angela struggle to undo the buckle of her belt, expert fingers known for their steadfast precision reduced to a fumbling mess.

Her patience grew thin.

Amélie barely had the presence of mind not to jump out and yank them off, clouded judgement still acutely aware that any sudden movements could be easily misconstrued. It was a fine balance to strike, to be nimble enough to please but slow enough to seem docile; lest they wanted the whole ordeal to take a deadly turn. Beneath the hedonistic pursuits was a tension, the way they held each other with more force than lovers.

Impatience won out eventually and she finally sat up, careful to not to do so in a threatening manner. Amélie crawled to the foot of the bed where Angela stood before pulling the doctor by a belt loop in wanton greed.

“Come here,” Widowmaker barely recognized the voice that escaped her lips. It sounded so breathy, so needy--so unlike her 'normal' self.

It was Amélie’s. The realization further emboldened Angela.

In this moment she had Amélie, even if for just a night; even if emerald eyes had transformed to gold, they still held the same desires of the past.

Angela could overlook the change in pigmentation, the menacing tattoo, just as Amélie could recall the way Angela awakened deep-seated emotions she didn’t even know she had. They were always doomed to be at odds with each other but tonight, their dualities synced; one forgetting, while the other remembered.

Amélie parted her knees slightly to pull the woman in, hands naturally resting on ample hips. She removed Angela’s belt in one swift motion, wasting no time to work the buttons in her pants, letting them fall to the floor before they were hastily kicked aside.

Hands that have wreaked so much havoc delicately roamed against Angela’s abdominals before slithering to the curve of her spine, delighting in the way they flexed under her cool touch.

 _Fuck_ , she was so soft.

Her lips delicately grazed lean abdominals, feeling Angela’s skin hot on her lips.

A sigh escaped her throat at the low rumble of approval when Amélie unclasped her bra. She took her time getting reacquainted with the swell of her breasts, palms cupping appreciatively before wet lips latched onto a peak.

She heard a hiss of pleasure when her slick tongue lapped and swirled around a nipple, hardening with every flick, just as Angela stripped the bulky contraption off her head. Dark cerulean hair trapped under its confines now fell free and Angela ran fingers through long silk as a reward for the diligent mouth working her nipples raw.

In between her ministrations she would look up, heat pooling between her thighs at the way Angela watched her, dark with need.

 _God_ , she could take her now.

Her eyes shut closed to better savor the woman's ragged breaths against the backdrop of heavy rain.

There was a frustrated sigh then a shove before Amélie felt herself on her back again. Angela didn’t waste another second undressing her, ripping skin-tight suit from the center, releasing supple breasts from its confines with the grace and lethality of a starved animal that had gone weeks without feeding.

Frantic hands tore through clothe, ties, and gauntlets—anything to free themselves from the suffocating air until only their bare bodies touched.

Amélie retreated towards the headboard and Angela followed suit, looming over while she stalked atop the rumpled mattress, shivering against cold skin pressed against her warmth.

When Amélie couldn’t retreat any further, Angela’s arms settled on both sides of her head, pinning her down as it trapped her under that searing gaze. Legs automatically parted, the cool air teasing slick folds beneath the silk, waiting to be touched.

Her breathing grew heavy at the sight of Angela hovering above her. The notoriety of power had kept her isolated, never to be afforded the sweet ecstasy of vulnerability.

But she finally found an equal. There was no greater pleasure than being taken by another, stronger animal.

She didn’t know who, what and where she was, nor did she care. All she knew was her burning desire to have this woman ravage her.

Soft lips latched onto her neck, snapping her out of the reverie. She mewled, coiling at the pleasant but overstimulating sensation of slick tongue against her throat. There was a low snarl at being denied, fingers firmly clutching her by the jaw to reopen access to the sensitive flesh beneath. Amélie couldn’t hold back the heady moan that escaped her lips at being forced to relish Angela’s attention. She missed Angela’s touch, the impatience, the roughness, the domineering attitude she never had the power to resist.

Even when she knew she was married.

The sudden ache in her skull was almost enough to snap her out of the moment, but it melted away into a dull ache when hands ventured south, fingers tracing the hem of her undergarments before slipping beneath the silk. She whimpered, the sudden sensation of nimble fingers wiping all traces of thought from her mind. Her hips bucked, eager for more.

She nearly lost it when they grazed the swollen bud that ached to be touched. Pleading moans echoed in the dark room as the pace picked up, emboldened by the woman’s desperation beneath her, to know that she was responsible for the taming of a destroyer, even if for just a moment, that Widowmaker could purr akin to a kitten instead of the beast everyone feared.

Angela watched her, entranced by the expression of pure bliss, fine strands of hair sticking to a forehead drenched with sweat at the sweet punishment she was taking.

She continued to pepper her jaw with feather-light kisses, encouraging the sweet surrender, the loss of control and power affecting Widowmaker in ways she didn't know was possible.

There was a small cry when she plunged her fingers deep, Amélie’s core slick and hot, swallowing her whole.

Her heart beat faster than it ever had, her temperature matching Angela’s own soaring heat.

_“A-Angela…”_

Amélie gripped her tight, nails leaving a trail of welts on her back as she clawed in the midst of sweet release.

She whimpered, barely able to muffle the scream that threatened to escape her lips as she felt the insurmountable tide finally breach her defenses.

It had been too long, and she came undone within seconds of Angela’s thrumming. The corners of her eyes pooled at the strength of her orgasm as she relished the feeling of being Amélie again, even if for just a few seconds.

It was automatic—just as natural as Angela’s name rolling off her tongue—the gentle, almost loving way she stroked her back still half-drunk from the throes of passion. She struggled to keep her breathing under control, her mind blissfully blank basking under Angela’s warmth, holding on as if she could lose her at any moment.

Despite the trance-like ordeal, Angela was no fool, no more than Amélie was. They both knew that when the haze cleared, the illusion would end. Even now as the high simmered, there were too many thoughts, too many desires, that surfaced that were not entirely hers, fighting to regain control. She wanted to bury them all, to seek refuge in Angela like she did all those years ago.

With unmatched elegance, Amélie flipped their positions, the blonde woman now pinned beneath her weight. Angela’s eyes snapped open, alarmed at the speed and strength that easily threw her weight like a useless sack. She would have retaliated had it not been for lips that were quick to capture hers, the gentle sparring of their tongues resuming, reassuring, and those worries were quickly forgotten.

Through the woman’s slow deliberate motions, Angela recognized her grace—so typically Amélie—in Widowmaker’s cold touch. Even the way Amélie made love from a distance, always a step away from disappearing. Amélie’s very nature was transient, her evanescence filling Angela with greed as she pulled her in before she was lost again, never to return.

Nails scraped against pale skin as they tauntingly made their way where Angela needed them most. Her breath hitched when fingers played against the entrance of her core.

“Do you want this,” she heard Amélie whisper. 

Angela pulled her in for an answer, frustrated with Amélie’s infuriating need to tease, framing consent like a question when she already knew the answer.

Amélie broke away from the kiss, lips venturing south as she teased slick folds with lithe fingers, leaving a trail of saliva which spanned from her neck down to her inner thighs. There she nipped at skin, enjoying the little gasps that spilled from Angela’s throat, glossing over bite marks with the warmth of her tongue as the woman went delirious at the exquisite mixture of both pleasure and pain.

“Amélie…” the woman whined. She loved how Angela melted under her gaze, forehead slick with perspiration at having to endure Amélie’s sweet torture. As much as she liked seeing the domineering attitude, she enjoyed seeing the rigid doctor come undone just as much. Almost as much as hearing that name earnestly slip out of her throat.

Angela let out a moan that was stretched and strained, like the diligent tongue lapping her clit.

Amélie ran her tongue deliberately, savoring the taste like a recovering drunk presented with its first wine in 10 years.

Thighs squeezed against her head, demanding more but Amélie patiently parted them, continuing her languid pace. It drove Angela mad.

“H-harder,” Angela pleaded. Amélie much liked this agreeable tone, so she obliged.

She plunged two fingers, hearing the woman choke on air. Her rhythm picked up to match the tongue flicking her clit. Her fingers curled and pumped, feeling Angela’s wall contract around them until it took considerable effort to move them and create friction. It only emboldened her to drive herself deeper and harder.

Angela could feel the heat coiling in the pit of her stomach, ready to explode. Seeing the earnest way Amélie devoured her made her knees quake. Angela couldn’t help but ground her hips on that tongue, feeling the way it flexed against her aching clit.

“Oh _God_ ,” Angela barely managed to cry out, mouth open in silent scream. She fisted the hair in her grasp, harder than she intended, and Amélie’s surprised gasp cold against her heat was enough to set off her final release.

Angela came, back arching so hard Amélie had to hold her down, eager to taste every bit of her orgasm like the succulence of a rare and forbidden fruit.

After riding out Angela's orgasm, she pulled away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a lewd tongue slipping past her lips to lick away any remnants of Angela it might’ve missed. The blonde woman was still gasping for air, throat dry from the intensity of her orgasm.

Angela barely registered Amélie’s move to straddle her had it not been for the pool of wetness on her stomach.

Amélie wanted to let her know how _fucking_ wet watching her come made her. Still, she hungered for more.

“I almost forgot how beautiful you are,” Widowmaker said, desire dripping with every word, voice dark with need.

Dark hair cascaded like deadly falls akin to a perched siren waiting for her sailor.

“But you also forgot, didn’t you? Letting your guard down like this.”

It was soft, almost somber, but the menacing undertone was enough to snap Angela out of the serene reverie. It immediately brought her down from her high, rational taking over as she looked up at the woman straddling her. Glowing irises stared back, clear and unclouded—not a trace of Amélie to be found.

No sooner did she realize this did she feel a violent force against her chest, knocking out all the air in her lungs in one smooth motion. Angela looked down, at Widowmaker’s hands over her heart as it clutched a broken piece of glass buried in her heart. She coughed, barely registering the taste of iron that spilled in the corners of her mouth.

Her vision began to blur just as Widowmaker leaned down to whisper,

“You haven’t learned a thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, it's Dom!Mercy. You're welcome.  
> I used Widowmaker and Amelie interchangeably in the last part so I hope that wasn't too confusing. I also thought about ending it here but I don't think anybody would be satisfied by this ending. I'll try to finish this before November. I hate leaving works unfinished.


	4. Chapter 4

The effects of Angela’s chemicals hadn’t completely worn off, but Widowmaker could think a little clearer.

Amélie had her turn, and now Angela was hers. Widowmaker still ached with need and she knew only the doctor could satiate the hunger.

She nearly groaned in ecstasy when she plunged the glass deep in Angela’s chest. The exquisite way its jagged edges tore through flesh nearly drove her to a second climax. It was divine feeling the tremors of a struggling organ through the blade.

Widowmaker sighed, piercing the doctor’s heart with the same surgical efficacy as Angela when she dove herself deep inside Amélie just moments ago.

The grip on her waist was crushing, but they grew limp with every passing moment.

Widowmaker leaned down to capture a gaping mouth, caring little about the swirling taste of iron on her tongue.

She whispered words of gratitude against trembling lips; Gérard had been a disappointment, but Angela’s death would give her redemption.

Only when the doctor’s mouth went slack did Widowmaker finally release her. She peeled away, admiring her work while appreciating the familiar peace that came with death.

Angela was _beautiful_.

Sightless eyes met an equally arctic gaze. The fire in those deep blue eyes had finally been doused, like two oceans once erupting with molten gaze hardened into orbs of obsidian, dormant and hollow.

What was this _feeling_? There was the usual pleasure from a hit, but there was something else. Sorrow? Longing?

She shook her head to rid herself of the pain that started to crawl from deep within her skull. The high of the kill and the pleasure of Angela’s touch had momentarily numbed the shock, but she dared not test its limits.

Widowmaker wrestled with the urge to stay until there was nothing else to take, not even her fading heat.

With feline grace she unmounted Angela, swinging a slender leg over the edge of the mattress before touching the cool, marbled floor with her toes. Widowmaker began to pillage the doctor’s closet, passing her torn purple suit as it laid pitifully on the floor. How ironic; the suit was engineered to endure the blaze of battle, yet it could not survive the doctor’s touch.

She settled for one of the doctor’s many collared shirts, the style simple and boring—a stark contrast to the chaos of their owner’s lips.

A shudder crawled up from the base of her spine, uncharacteristic physiological response triggered at the mere thought of the past hour, of warm palms pinning hers against the soft mattress while she endured the onslaught on her flesh.

Heat rapidly spread throughout her whole body, its scorch a welcomed sensation on numb skin. She’d never had this reaction from a kill before. Then again, aside from Gérard, she’d never taken anybody like this.

The high of a successful kill should have already passed yet it lingered in her bones long after her prey’s demise. It wasn’t until she passed a mirror and noticed the glow on her stoic face that it became apparent her body was going off on an entirely different high.

Widowmaker donned the white shirt, feeling it pinch her chest, so she settled with buttoning them only halfway through. The fit was akin to Angela’s pants which she picked up from the ground; loose in some areas, tight in others. As she slid in taut legs, she felt the clothe hug her backside, and she had to wrap the belt that laid forgotten beside it to secure the loose waistband.

She sauntered over the doctor’s work desk.

Angela continued to occupy space in the most arcane parts of her mind. Even deceased, Angela had a presence…much like Gérard. Barely any memories of either yet she knew they would persist in Amélie’s subconscious. All the more reasons to leave but her curiosity could not be silenced.

Who are you, Angela Zeigler?

Was she a nurturing doctor determined to preserve life, or a mad scientist obsessed with overcoming death? It became increasingly apparent as she studied the papers which littered Angela’s desk. Its contents were well beyond a simple assassin’s comprehension, but among medical jargon keywords stood out along with images of anatomical figures which hinted at the doctor’s theory: aging was the ultimate disease. Her solution? Eternal youth. There was a stack of folders detailing experiments on revived lab rats, noting death as some form of catalyst to true immortality but even more outrageous were the multiple failed experiments to reverse an endless life.

She grimaced, not out of her usual spite for science, but to brood over the doctor’s uncharacteristic backpedaling. Amélie knew Angela to be stubborn as much as she was benevolent—the people she could help with this kind of discovery were limitless. Why would she want to undo everything?

She threw a quick glance at the motionless form on the bed and followed the tug from across the room without a second thought. The side of the mattress dipped beneath her weight.

She inspected her latest victim up close, Angela the face of serenity in eternal slumber, naked as the day she was born.

Perhaps the doctor realized the monotony of revolving seasons, fruitless as they passed. As Widowmaker pondered her own cyclical existence, she supposed she wouldn’t want to live forever either. She rarely felt alive as is.

The doctor was immune to aging, but she was not invulnerable to death. Angela may have lived forever had Widowmaker not taken her life. Perhaps she gave Angela the gift she wanted most.

With ease she dislodged the large piece of glass protruding from flesh, red spilling passively from a punctured organ that had long ceased its beating. The woman’s body was still warm to the touch—a cruel irony as Angela felt more alive than she ever did.

Widowmaker draped her in white sheets out of respect; the least she could do was give the woman decency in death. Without thinking, she ran frigid fingers through blonde hair, the gesture so familiar it almost ached.

Did she love Angela the same way she loved Gérard?

Pain blunted by the high, the small window of opportunity to explore the hidden corners of her mind was too tempting to pass up. The tremor was there but it was white noise compared to the crippling shock she was used to.

She would never have this chance again.

Reluctantly, she closed her eyes and began to tiptoe the dark corners of her brain, wary of pain like monsters with scalpels lurking in the shadows.

None came so she ventured deeper into her subconscious where fleeting images of Amélie’s past grazed her mind like a passing breeze.

They brought her back to her childhood home as she nervously shifted in her seat. Young Amélie fiddled with her small hands, shrinking beneath her mother’s stare.

Mrs. Guillard was a stoic, unreadable woman. Though already peppered with silver strands, she had the same dark hair tied in a high ponytail like the child sitting across the long mahogany table.

Young Amélie’s gaze was downcast--her mother had intimidating eyes, and they pierced hers without her father’s presence there to distract them. Her father’s absence had become more frequent and dinner became an unpleasant ritual. She hated him for it, almost as much as Mrs. Guillard hated eating alone.

Her father often reassured her that beneath the hard exterior, her mother had a caring heart; though, it certainly didn’t feel like it with the way she always stared her down.

“ _Give_ _her_ _a_ _chance_. _You_ _two_ _are_ _more_ _alike_ _than_ _you_ _realize_.”

Amélie petulantly glared at her father at the mere mention of their similarities. She was not like _her_.

The mind’s eye ventered further as the winds blew, softly carrying her over into another decade.

Amélie found her second home in a mysterious, charismatic man; but like her father, he was never around.

She kissed him before he left--she never knew whether it’d be the last, so she always savored his lips.

Gérard smiled at her, eyes glazed like a lovesick puppy. “You make it so hard to leave.”

“It’s how I make sure you keep coming back.”

“I’d claw myself out of hell if I have to.” He donned his black beret as Amélie helped him in his uniform.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back…but—” He began apologetically, but she waved a hand dismissively.

“Go.”

Every farewell stacked like stones upon her shoulders until she was caving in from the weight of a mountain. She never showed it.

Instead, she gave his rear a playful smack, “And tell your mistress your wife says hi.”

Gérard smiled at this. Amélie may appear menacing to the typical man but beneath it all, Amélie had a playful soul. At times she could even be immature, but it was endearing nonetheless.

“I’m sorry, chérie. Did I forget to tell you that you’re the mistress?”

“Eventually you’ll leave Overwatch for me, I’m sure of it,” she teased back, hands clasped together in mock display of a foolish damsel.

“One day.”

With one final kiss the door closed, leaving her to sit in a dimly lit kitchen to ponder when and if one day would finally come. Amélie understood—sometimes even craved—Gérard’s absence. She’d always been a solitary creature; marrying Gérard didn’t change that despite how much she loved the man. But perhaps she really was a fool waiting around for a man who was already married to his work.

As she closed her eyes, she could feel the chilling emptiness emanating from every corner of her house.

The silence was deafening.

When she opened her eyes, Amélie found herself in a room so bright it momentarily blinded her. This wasn’t home, but it felt like it.

She sensed another’s presence across the table and suddenly, she didn’t feel so cold anymore. The sun’s touch and the company she kept gave her a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Why must you blind yourself with so much sun?” Amélie clicked her tongue in distaste, unused to the overwhelming amount of light pouring in from two large windows.

“And you wonder why you’re so pale,” bantered the woman across from her.

  
Amélie’s chin nestled comfortably on intertwined knuckles as she continued watching Angela rustle through papers across the dinner table. Amélie’s home had always felt unbearably empty without company, so she trespassed the doctor’s apartment whenever she could.

Not that Angela minded; she mostly kept to herself and worked in silence while Amélie distracted herself with her own interests.

When she grew bored of watching the doctor endlessly sift through her work, Amélie mentally redecorated Angela’s barren walls. Angela was careless with her possessions if the fading color of her dinner table was any indication. Wood this delicate could never survive constant sunlight and Angela kept her windows open throughout the day. If she had any enemies—and she had plenty—she would be an easy target.

Amélie grimaced. Angela was careless about her own safety too, but that’s why Amelie stayed closely, or so she tells herself.

“You’re supposed to be out sick,” Amélie began, reprimanding the doctor’s work ethic—it’ll likely get her killed more than any bullet could.

“I feel fine. I just don’t want to spread what I have to the others. I don’t know why you insist on being here. I’m contagious.”

“Boredom will kill me way before your germs do.”

“Actually, it’s a virus.” Angela momentarily abandoned her papers to throw Amélie an annoyed stare through her glasses. “Do you ever work?”

“When I want to.”

“One day I’ll find myself a rich heiress. Yes, I’ll do that,” Angela muttered, more to herself than to Amélie before continuing her work.

“As if that would keep you from overworking yourself to death. You’re like Gérard, always working when we could be out enjoying life.”

Amélie bit the inside of her cheek. It wasn’t the best comparison, especially considering how close they’ve become. To make matters worse, she’d grown shamelessly familiar with Angela’s apartment enough that people in Overwatch started to talk. With Amélie’s company, it was noticeable that Angela was spending more and more time working from home.

Neither cared; it was a rare case of a recluse finding comfort in another. Amélie always assumed it was Angela’s nurturing instincts that kept her company; she could never ignore the beckoning—no matter how subtle—of someone in need.

Fortunately, Angela stayed silent. Perhaps she missed the comment or simply chose to ignore it.

Amélie removed herself from the living room before Angela could ponder its implications. She got up and collected their empty plates before walking into the kitchen to stow them away.

She usually left the dishes in her own kitchen for the cleaners to finish but that’d be rude especially considering how much Angela worked.

Amélie removed her wedding ring and placed it on the black countertop overlooking the living room. She twisted the faucet on and allowed her mind to wander. Her sight mindlessly fell on a picturesque scene, captured by bright blond locks shining with the heat of the sun as it barely hung over exposed shoulders. Angela’s eyebrows were knit at the center, unconsciously chewing on a pen pressed against her lips deep in thought. The tip of her nose was blushed pink from a whole night spent blowing into tissues and still an undeniable truth remained: Angela was beautiful.

Amélie had to swallow a gasp when she almost let a plate slip out of her fingers. Her face heated up at the passing thought.

It’s not as if she hadn’t noticed what was already obvious to half of Overwatch, but seeing Angela like this, in her element where few had ever ventured, was…moving.

Beyond shallow physical attraction, there was something else about her, something inherently familiar.

She didn’t realize it at the time but Amélie already knew Angela long before she even uttered a word of greeting. The way she moved, the way she talked, the passion emanating from her pores— deep down Amélie already knew— she would be playing with fire.

Amélie always did gravitate towards her _kind_. She married one, after all.

They had a grand mission, and Amélie marveled at the clarity of their purpose in life. Despite their drive, they never stifled her, always providing her with choice and freedom unlike the confines of her childhood. She was weak against their calling.

Amélie cleared her throat, hoping it would do the same to these unwanted thoughts.

“You’re quite withdrawn. I thought doctors were supposed to be more…amicable?,” Amélie randomly pointed out, momentarily taking them both out of their own worlds.

“Isn’t this a wonderful case of the cauldron calling the kettle black?” Angela’s eyes never left the table, still glued to her work.

“It’s in my nature to be solitary. Yours feel more…self-imposed.”

“Did your parents lock you up in the basement and pulverize your extroversion?” Amélie teased as she dried her hands, silently cursing as she forgot her wedding ring. She slipped it back on with ease before making her way back to the living room.

“Well, _Dr_. _LaCroix_ , you are correct in assuming my parents are somehow involved.”

“Aren’t they always?”

“Their deaths taught me how to survive. Alone.” Angela’s flat tone screamed her desire to be left in peace but Amélie was never one to indulge wishes other than her own.

“You’re afraid to get too close because all you’ve ever known is loss.” Amélie’s reply was curt but delicate.

They locked eyes for an instant. Angela wasn’t used to getting challenged—and with such care—that she hardly knew how to react.

Amélie could see the cogs in her head working, calculating whether it was worth the struggle to fight another cerebral master. It was not.

“I am,” she admitted.

It was hard for Amélie to imagine Angela would ever tell a patient they were terminal in this manner; It was just as hard to remember that Angela already fought in many battles, and thus, desensitized to tragedy, even her own. Despite living a life of misfortune, she never thought of herself as a victim; She wouldn’t have achieved this level of success if she did. Still, she wondered how many comrades she’d already lost.

Amélie suddenly felt spoiled compared to her.

“When my father died, I told my mother I wished it was her instead,” Amélie confessed, subconsciously revealing her innermost thoughts.

That got Angela’s attention.

“She had an affair,” Amélie clarified.

“I’m sorry. Cheating is vile, though I can’t agree with the sentiment that it somehow warrants  _death_. She must’ve had her reasons.”

“Excusing infidelity? I thought you had a more ethical core, _doctor_.” Amélie raised a brow. “He was never around but that doesn’t give her the right to lie to him.”

“Of course not, but you know as well as I that being left behind isn’t the best feeling. The right move would’ve been to fix her marriage but maybe that had been a dead end? She can only control her own actions and only a fool would sit around and do nothing about their circumstance—”

The realization struck her mid sentence—between the maternal semblance and her mother’s own actions—what Amelie was doing this very second was dangerous, being here with Angela.

“—People get lonely. They need company, comfort, reassurance. It’s in our nature as social creatures.”

Amélie was following her mother’s footsteps.

“Angela, do you ever get lonely?”

“Hmm?”

“If you put a fraction of effort into meeting people as you do to this, you would have already found somebody.”

“Who says I want to be with _somebody_?”

“Fareeha seems to like you.”

Angela couldn’t hold back a snort. “She’s the commander’s daughter AND a soldier. You know how I feel about both.”

Amélie mindlessly twisted the ring on her finger. “It’s not so bad being with a soldier. You get used to it.”

“I don’t ever want to worry whether someone will make it back home.”

For a split second Amélie’s gaze fell, and the doctor’s keen eye hadn’t failed to notice it.

Angela quickly recovered—with great success—suavely diverting topics with a smoothness only a pick-up artist would be proud of. “Besides, you’re already quite a handful. There’s no way I’m ready for a full-blown commitment.”

Amélie often tried to bait risqué remarks out of Angela, but they’d been more for amusement than evocation. Lately, her antics were starting to feel more like the latter and she had enough presence of mind to stop before it got out of hand. But Angela’s verbal conformation of whatever the hell this was had her reconsidering. What’s the harm in playful banter? Fine, she’ll play along.

  
Amélie’s expression became mischievous. She donned an smirk, “I don’t know. You seem apt at playing the detached partner.”

“I’m sorry, _liebling_ , did you say something?” Angela smiled with as much sweetness as she could tolerate, which frankly, was not very much. 

“A+ for effort. The execution could use some work though.”

“I would’ve been happy with a C.”

“You play the part so well.”

“Who says I’m playing?”

“I’m still not sure how you passed medical school with that attitude.”

”Cs get degrees.”

They eventually settled in comfortable silence, Angela quickly reabsorbed by her work while Amélie was left to ruminate in her thoughts.

Two halves of a negligent spouse was still a whole—Gerard the Absent and Angela the Aloof. She supposed she was lucky to have either. 

“You should apologize to your mother,” Angela interjected after some time, not bothering to look up. “Not many people still have the opportunity to.”

It was Amélie’s turn to notice the brief look of sorrow that painted Angela’s face while hollow eyes scanned letters that might as well be written in Latin.  
—

Amélie dreaded unannounced visits. Opening the door to visits like these could just as easily turn into a visit from two soldiers delivering her husband’s casket right in front of her doorstep.

No news was good news.

Instead, what greeted her was the familiar face of a woman she hadn’t seen since childhood. She knew her as close friend of her mother’s, but beyond that, she was the family attorney in charge of managing the family’s wealth—the entirety of the Guillard fortune—and oversaw all of its major transference. The Guillards had assets spanning multiple continents and it took a team of skilled attorneys and financial managers to handle them all. 

As the sole living Guillard, they were now Amélie’s. Her mother died in her sleep. Alone. 

That day moved like it would never end, yet it passed like a blur.

Amélie signed some papers, mostly concerning trusts and wills but more notable were the details of her mother’s burial (she wished to be beside her father). She didn’t remember much else as she functioned in autopilot for the rest of the week.

All she knew was that she needed to return to France to inspect the chateau her mother left in her name. It was an excuse to get away, to wallow in the fact that she’d been a terrible daughter after all these years. Not a single visit from her even when she moved to the Overwatch base in Geneva, a mere hour away from her mother. 

The clack of her heels echoed along barren walls, stripped of its soul after its contents have been removed. The chateau now felt vast, cold, and empty—just like her own home.

No matter how old one gets, parents never seem to age. In a child’s mind, they remain the same, immune to sickness and aging.

As she collapsed on her mother’s bed, she felt small, like she was a child all over again.

Amélie buried her face into silken sheets, a familiar scent perforating her senses as it brought a sense of nostalgia that coaxed the tears out of Amélie’s eyes.

Her mother’s perfume had a distinct scent. Knowing her tastes in luxurious niceties, she probably created the perfume herself using a string of exclusive vendors. She always meant to ask which company and what combination of rare flowers was capable of creating such a subtle, lingering scent, but with her gone its secrets were lost forever, much like her.

A strangled cry escaped her lips despite her lame attempt to choke down the agony that had been bubbling up deep inside her chest. Well hidden in a remote corner of France, the chateau was far too isolated. Nobody could hear cries downed by the wind, a call for help that nobody could answer.

She was alone—truly alone. She had no family, and no home. Her house was an empty shell without Gérard and she’d been living in utter isolation save the few instances he was home.

Amélie curled into herself. She vaguely noticed the passage of time, the walls of her mother’s room shifting from white to beige, auburn to black. She sunk in darkness with only the half crescent moon giving her light and company. She was drowning in the night before a hand reached down to pull her out of its depths.

Strong arms wrapped around her small frame, frail and limp in a tight embrace.

She finally crumbled, sobbing blindly into arms that kept her anchored.

Oh Gérard.

He’d been gone for a mission, but he must’ve heard the news and came back for her. He always knew where to find her.

Her damp cheeks were carefully wiped with clothe, a clean white sleeve now dirtied by tears and makeup. A comforting voice cooed, warm but firm, gave Amélie something else to hold on to.

Through the tears, she could barely see Angela’s features. Oh but she could feel her and that was everything she needed at that moment.

Starved of strength and intimacy, she sought and found them in Angela’s arms, on her lips and the smoothness of her skin. They felt like home and she never wanted to let go. She held on to her with the desperation of a drowning man and Angela was almost swept away by the strength of the tide, but like a rock she stood her ground and tethered them back to shore.

Reluctantly, Angela peeled away, breathless. She cleared her throat, voice hoarse.

Blue eyes were dazed, and for the first time they uttered words she didn’t quite believe. “We shouldn’t...”

A selfish part of Angela wanted this too.

“I’m sorry,” Amélie gathered herself but was barely able to choke out the words.

She faced away, avoiding Angela’s gaze as she sheathed growing shame in a long curtain of hair. Sorrow twisted into self-loathing.

How _fucking_ selfish. Taking advantage of her mother’s death, Gérard’s absence, and Angela’s nurturing instincts.

“It’s ok. It’s ok,” Angela pressed, sensing the woman beginning to recoil, defenses stacking higher and higher. A gentle hand on her shoulder wasn’t enough to reel her back in; it seemed to have the opposite effect, Angela could feel the woman trembling, twisting away from her touch.

How long had she been suffering like this?

”I’d like to be left alone.” Amélie’s tone was unnervingly polite. They were practiced words, hollow in essence.

So Angela lingered, refusing to allow her to suffer in silence any longer than she already had though it only served to further agitate the woman before her.

“Amélie—,” Angela began. 

“I told you to leave!” Amélie snapped, cool temperament slipping with the rest of her facade.

”I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know me,” she snarled with a bite that almost made Angela relent. “Stop acting like you know what’s best for me.”

  
Despite the tears that fell, there was a darkness in Amélie‘s eyes that glinted with a hint of danger. She was more than capable of hurting Angela and she knew to spit her poison on old wounds. 

“You think you know but you don’t. Your parents died when you were young. You never formed these bonds, these fucking chains.”

Angela was taken back, her hands instinctively curling into fists at the mention of her turbulent past. It was a sore spot when brought up by the right person and she had let Amélie in enough for her to know that this could push her away.

“I hated her and I wished she died sooner like yours did so I wouldn’t have to feel like this!”

Like a hidden leak the sadness trickled in but anger had the explosive force that finally broke her, revealing the ugly emotions had buried deep within herself.

She sobbed as the tides took her. It was more than she could bear and she swore it would’ve been better if she could feel nothing.

The sudden weight on Amélie caused her to reel back, both sinking into the mattress as she trembled in Angela’s embrace.

Angela recognized it the moment Amélie broke. She’d felt this kind of pain before. 

Amélie fought against her hold; accepting Angela meant facing her pain. 

“Let go,” she whimpered, the mask she’d tediously curated over the years disintegrating the longer she stayed in Angela’s arms. 

The surprising disparity in strength would had been apparent but Amélie could only sob harder at her helplessness.

Angela was guiding her to face her demons and when her cries had finally died down, she reluctantly bore her soul in surrender. 

“I don’t want to be alone.”

Something tugged in Angela’s chest, at the sight of a strong woman finally opening up to reveal a weakness she held dear. 

“I’m here.”

This time, Angela was the one to pull her in. As she held Amélie, Angela discovered that beneath the façade, the mastery of combat and firearms, that at the core Amélie had a delicate heart that needed reassurance, protection, and love. 

Angela gave them all to her that night, when she needed them most, when nobody else could. 

It was brief but the memory would go on to survive in the deep recesses of Widowmaker’s brain long after her other memories of the woman have been destroyed. 

Eyes screwed shut and deeply entrenched in the playback of a painful memory, Widowmaker hadn’t noticed a lone drop of tear spill from the corner of her eye. She also failed to notice something stir beneath white sheets, the twitch of a finger, just as smoke rose through the pores of the thin material. There was a faint sizzle as wounds seared shut but Widowmaker could only hear the voice of someone she thought gone. 

“ _I’m here, Amèlie. I’m_   _not going anywhere.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I didn’t realize I haven’t updated this since October. Holidays got busy and I often mentally revisited this story so I thought less time had passed since my update. 
> 
> One more chapter! Hopefully I can finish this end of February? ;D


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